


Percentages + Exposure + Survival Rates

by impossiblepluto



Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Episode Tag, Episode: s03e09 Specimen 234 + PAPR + Outbreak, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Jack Dalton (MacGyver 2016), Team as Family, Whump, Whump Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-20 13:50:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19993261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossiblepluto/pseuds/impossiblepluto
Summary: A missing scene and alternate ending from 3x09: Specimen 234 + PAPR + Outbreak.You know exactly what this is. Whump without plot and lots of angsty comfort





	1. Ninety-Nine Percent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said I wasn't going to touch this episode with a ten foot pole. (I didn't want to deal with figuring out the wonky science of Specimen 234, what kind of isolation was needed, symptoms of the superbug etc.) Famous last words I guess.  
> I was about halfway through a missing scene from the cold open of this episode when Jack said something and suddenly I was writing an alternate ending.
> 
> Special thanks to several people who probably didn't even realize they helped inspire this work:  
> panchostokes (aka bisexualstokes, aka badwolfrun) and altschmerzes for a discussion you guys had on tumblr  
> teddycar1234 for helping me out with a question about Mac's polar bear in the entryway  
> benedicthiddleston (aka tilliwriteapine) for sending me the song "Fight On, Fighter" by King and Country in a playlist (i listened on repeat while writing the second chapter)
> 
> And Paul McCartney (the real one, not a username) because I had "Live and Let Die" stuck in my head since I saw him in concert a month ago. 
> 
> It has basically no plot is and is completely self-indulgent hurt/comfort. Enjoy!

Jack whistles.

He sticks his fingers through the iron bars and snaps them in rapid succession. 

"Come on, boy!" His pitch an octave higher than usual, coaxing. "Come on!"

Mac sits next to Jack, his back against the bars and facing the inside of their cage.

"That's it. Come on."

Mac sighs and crosses his arms. Leaning his head back against the metal.

"I think it's gonna work this time," Jack mumbles out of the side of his mouth to Mac, keeping his sights on the dog.

"As opposed to the last six attempts you've made."

"One of these times it's gotta work."

"Einstein said doing the same thing over and over, and expecting different results is the definition of insanity."

"Yeah, but the dog doesn't know that," Jack tips his head towards Mac, a patronizing eyebrow raised.

Mac's forehead furrows, disbelief and a hint of irritation written on his features. He opens his mouth, about to question Jack's thought process, to argue the logic, when he decides against it. Some arguments, though it's rare, are not worth the effort. He shakes his head.

"Hey, I help you out and don't make fun of your crazy ideas. You tell me what you need and I do it. _Give me your phone, Jack. Run through a field of lightning, Jack. Jump out of a plane with a homemade parachute, Jack."_

"First of all, that's not true, you always make fun of my ideas. And second, all of my ideas, no matter how crazy are based in scientific theory."

"Ha! Theory. Not fact. Just like Einstein's theory of insanity."

"There is no scientific fact--" Mac snaps his mouth shut. He takes a breath through his nose. "Fine. What do you need me to do?"

"We're gonna out bored the dog."

Mac raises a quizzical eyebrow.

"The dog knows we want him to come close, so, of course, he's not gonna."

"Of course," Mac repeats sarcastically.

Jack scowls but ignores Mac's tone. "We're gonna leave a couple of these absolutely not human bones outside the cage," Jack scoots over to the pile of remains, selecting the most appetizing looking of the bones. "And then we're gonna act like we're ignoring the dog. Like we're not interested in anything he has."

"And that will do what?"

"Just trust me. If he thinks we don't care about him or the key, he might get close enough to investigate."

Mac shrugs. "Why not? Nothing else has worked. Let's con the dog."

"I knew you'd recognize the genius in this idea."

Mac settles back again, leans his right shoulder against the bars, facing Jack. Focusing on tying knots into a long blade of grass, for no other reason than it keeps his hands busy. It feels like he could drink the air, it's so thick with humidity. Dark clouds rolling in. This cage is about to get more unpleasant if the storm is as severe as the sky looks. He wonders if he could pry the backing off of the explosive wired to the bars, and use the rain to short out the device without electrocuting themselves or setting off the detonator. Just examining the device sent a shock through his fingers that left them buzzing. Still. He flexes his fingers, trying to shake off the pins and needles sensation. He can feel Jack watching him.

"I don't make fun of your ideas," Jack mumbles.

Mac glances up. This is not how he thought Jack was going to lead off a conversation.

"I know, I do, but it's not because I don't trust them, or you, or think they're dumb," Jack continues. "I thought it was our thing, you know. You say something nerdy. I tease you. You save the world."

"I know."

"Because if it bothers you, I'll stop."

"It doesn't bother me."

"You sure?"

Sometimes, Mac's mind moves so quickly, jumping from thought to idea with a detour through a chemical equation. A roundabout in an article he read, a pit stop in a lecture he listened to. Sometimes his brain is miles away when he answering questions in the here and now. A quick, half-hearted answer that he thinks is the right one, the one that people want to hear without regard to his wants.

Maybe it stems from being a kid left behind, always being told he's wrong for wanting more. His needs an afterthought.

Jack always makes sure he slows down. Instead of allowing him to bypass his emotions, Jack makes him pause, think about what he feels, what he wants, what he needs.

Jack is watching him. Steadily, openly, ready to change if that's what Mac needs.

It still, after all this time, throws him when Jack prioritizes him.

He makes an effort to answer the question through his suddenly tight throat. "I'm sure. It's like a tether. No matter how far I go, you're always there to pull me back." He pauses, then mumbles. "Sometimes I really need that."

It's a hard thing for him to admit, that he needs someone else. He's reluctant to rely on anyone. Even Jack. Even after all these years.

"We all got our talents," Jack smiles. "You make up the crazy plans, I make sure you live through them with a snarky comment and a smile."

The dog sniffs the air, and tentatively points a paw in their direction. They freeze, resisting the urge to look at the dog.

"It's workin'!"

"Well, don't get too excited. Play it cool."

"Right, right."

Mac glances up at the mutt through lowered lashes, mentally willing the dog to step closer. The wait is agonizing. The dog is toying with them. It's the only explanation for his one step forward, two steps back approach to the cage.

The key drops about a foot from Mac. The dog noses through the bones, distracted. Mac exchanges a look with Jack. It worked. Jack is completely still the only movement his eyes, gaze bouncing between the dog, the key and Mac's hand. He almost doesn't dare breathe.

Mac shifts his weight, trying not to make any sudden movements that would attract attention. His fingers crawl between the bars, the movement smooth and steady through the tall, dry grass.

Everything in him wants to hurry, snatch the keys while they're within reach. He forces himself to go slow.

His fingertips brush against the cool metal ring, slick with drool, sliding it closer to wrap his hand around it.

A growl and a snap. There's not time to react before a toothy jaw closes around the meaty flesh of Mac's tricep. He lurches back, trying to pull his arm from the bite. His shoulder crashes against the bars of the cage, impeding his escape. The dog hangs on. He feels tearing along the underside of his arm. Can almost hear it, picturing the dog separating flesh from bone, ripping away muscles and swallowing it down in a gulp.

He's yelling, struggling.

Jack yells. The bars to the cage rattle, and Mac wants to tell Jack to be careful, not to set off the explosives.  
The mutt yelps, and let go.

Mac jerks back again, succeeding in freeing his arm, his body slamming to the ground with the sudden release, unable to stop his momentum.

"Hey!" Jack yells, throwing the bone in his hand at the dog, who sulks off, tail between his legs.

Mac is on his knees in the long grass. Blood leaks down his right arm, and between the fingers of his left, holding pressure on the wound. Eyes closed, rocking lightly through the pain. Arm held tight across his body.

"Mac!" Jack scrambles across uneven ground.

"I got it," Mac says, jingling the keyring that he never let go of, grunting when the motion jars the damaged muscle.

"Yeah, good job bud," Jack's answer is distracted, and not nearly jubilant enough. He kneels, hands covering Mac's. "Come on, bud. Let me see it."

"It's fine," Mac grinds out through clenched teeth. "We gotta get out before the pirates come back."

"That can wait, you're bleeding."

"It's fine. Just a nip."

"Then it won't take me long to look," Jack's voice is firm. Mac's hand is sticky with blood, leaking between his fingers, running down his arm. Mac allows Jack to grasp his hand and move it. His sleeve is half torn away.

"If that's a nip, I'd hate to see a bite," Jack frowns.

Mac twists around trying to see the wound. The motion stretches the injured flesh. He hisses and closes his eyes again. "How bad is it?"

"There's a lot of blood but I don't think he actually took a chunk out of you," Jack says. "I don't have anything to clean it." He glances around, as if hoping a first aid kit previously hidden would suddenly appear.

"Just let it bleed for a minute," Mac says with a grunt, squeezing fresh blood from the wound. "That will flush it out until we can do something about it."

Jack tears the hem of his own t-shirt, then the rest of Mac's sleeve, pressing firmly against the wound to quell the flow of blood. Mac hisses at the pressure.

"Little tighter," Mac coaches. Then groans. He takes a minute to catch his breath as Jack finishes tying off the dressing.

"Alright, hoss, ready to blow this popsicle stand?"

"Figuratively, at least," Mac holds up the keyring he still hasn't let go of. Not after what he went through to get it.

Jack rolls his eyes, accepting the key and releasing the gate of their prison. "Can you stand?"

"It's my arm, not my legs." Ignoring Jack's offered 'arm up.'

Squinting at the sky, Jack continues. "There's the dehydration and blood loss too."

"You're as dehydrated as I am, and it didn't bleed that much" Mac counters. Then, seeing Jack's face, continues. "I'll let you know if either becomes a problem."

"Yeah? You promise?"

Mac is about to roll his eyes, brush off Jack's concern, mock his tendency to hover, and worry. But concerned brown eyes stop him. Raking over him, looking for any sign that he's not feeling as well as he states. Ready to intervene, to do whatever it takes to keep Mac safe. He answers sincerely. "Yeah. I promise."

"Cause if you need it, I'll carry you out of here."

This time, he can't quite hold back the eyeroll. "I think we can hold off on that for now."

"And dealer's choice man, over the shoulder, bridal style, piggyback," Jack pantomimes the actions as he followed Mac out of their prison. "But you wait 'til you pass out on me and then your options are gone."

* * *

The door to Phoenix Med opens and a bedraggled pair enter.

"Hey guys," Reese says with an empathetic smile aimed in Mac's direction. "We're all set up and waiting for you. Why don't you come on back?" She leads them to an open exam room. Jack waits for Mac to start moving before bringing up the rear.

"I just want to grab your weight before you sit," she instructs, and Mac kicks off his shoes.

"Since you've got him captive you're just gonna get in a physical too or what?" Jack asks.

"That wouldn't be a bad idea. Snag you both while we've got you and save us all a headache later," Reese says, waiting for the scale to take a measurement. "Some medications are weight-based dosing. I want to make sure nothing's changed too much since we last had you in here."

Jack squints over Mac's shoulder at the digital reading. "You're too skinny, bud."

Mac shoves his partner away. "I'll remind you of that the next time you complain about having to give me a leg up."

"Carrying you wouldn't be much worse than a run in full TAC."

"And yet you still complain."

"I offered to carry you all the way down a mountain."

Reese interrupts the impending argument. "Mac, the table's yours this time," she gestures for him to take a seat.

His eyes dart around the room, for a second, as if looking for an escape route, before he hops up on the exam table. He starts unbuttoning his shirt, as Reese washes her hands and gathers supplies.

Jack stands next to Mac, reaching out to help with the buttons, but Mac pushes his hands away. "Stop."

"Just tryin' to help."

"Again, I'll let you know if I need it."

"Mark irritable down as a symptom," Jack says, leaning around Mac to address Reese.

Mac rolls his eyes as he shrugs out of his shirt.

"How are you feeling, Mac?" She starts by grabbing a set of vital signs on Mac's uninjured arm.

"My arm hurts," Mac admits, but continues before Jack can interject. "But it's more, sore. Kind of achy, maybe?"

She nods. Holding up a thermometer, she instructs, "under your tongue."

"I cleaned out the bite on the plane, but it was about four hours later," Jack informs the nurse. "After a hike through the jungle. And a monsoon." Jack pulls at the collar of his still damp t-shirt.

The thermometer beeps. "One hundred, even. Let's grab some labs and see what else is brewing."

Mac's shoulders slump. Jack lightly grips the back of Mac's neck.

After obtaining blood, and leaving the catheter hub in place "just in case," which never leads to anything good, in Mac's opinion, Reese pulls out some bandage scissors and starts removing the gauze wrapped around Mac's upper arm, using a saline flush to help loosing the dressing where it sticks, and washing out the wound again.

Mac tries not to squirm at the cool saline and the tugging sensation. Jack offers comfort with a hand on Mac's shoulder, thumb stroking the base of Mac's neck, watching intently. Diligent as ever when it comes to Mac.

Dr. McClain enters as Reese finishes.

"Four puncture wounds," Reese starts relaying her findings. "Two have tearing around the site. Extensive bruising. Low grade temp."

The medical team exchanges a look. McClain gives a small nod and Reese slips from the room.

"Dog bite, huh?" McClain half-asks as an opening.

Mac shrugs. "It seemed like something I hadn't done before."

"So, you're just trying to keep me on my toes. Keep me popular at medical conferences. Alright, why don't you tell me about what else is going on," Dr. McClain asks.

"I have a headache," Mac confesses. "It could be dehydration, or low blood sugar. I drank some water on the plane, but I didn't know if I should eat anything."

"He hasn't had anything in about nine hours," Jack informs the doctor. "Running on fumes."

Dr. McClain nods, disseminating the information as he prods at the bite, and manipulates Mac's arm, assessing range of motion for the extent of the muscle damage.

"Any numbness or tingling down your arm, or in your hand?"

"Not from the bite," Mac denies.

McClain raises an eyebrow.

Mac hedges for a moment. "There was an explosive rigged to the cage. It gave me a shock when I tried to get a closer look at it."

The doctor picks up both of Mac's hands, examining the fingertips of the right one for any electrical burns.

"You didn't say anything," Jack's tone scolding.

"It was a mild shock. A little numb at the time, but has been steadily getting better. I hardly even notice it now."

"Give my hands a squeeze," McClain instructs. Mac winces. "Does it hurt?"

"Just at the bite, whenever I move it too much."

The doc puts Mac through his paces, while Jack observes with concern, only interjecting when he feels Mac isn't being totally honest, clarifying Mac-speak when the kid manipulates the questions and answers in his favor.

"So, here's the deal. Unknown dog with questionable vaccination status, in a foreign country."

Mac sighs, this is heading exactly where he worried it would be. Jack's hand massages his neck.

"Rabies?" Jack asks.

"We have to assume," McClain explains.

"He didn't look rabid. Didn't foam at the mouth or anything like that," Jack offers weakly.

"Incubation period can be anywhere from nine days to eight weeks. And he bit a human."

"Not really unprovoked, we were trying to get a key from him," Mac explains.

"While I'm sure it's an interesting story, and I am looking forward to reading the report, we can't risk it. We have to be proactive about this. If we wait for symptoms to show up, it might already be too late."

Jack's face blanches at the words.

"Yeah," Mac agrees, though his expression shows anything but being on board with the plan of care.

With the hand not comforting Mac, Jack scrubs his face. "Yeah," Jack sighs. "So, uh, how bad is the treatment?"

"It's not the horror story of injections in the abdomen," Dr. McClain quickly reassures. "That treatment plan went out before you were even born, Mac."

Mac perks up slightly, and Jack feels a rush of relief.

"It is a series of injections in the deltoid muscles though," Dr. McClain pats Mac's upper arm, just below his shoulder, to indicate the area. "Over the course of fourteen days."

That brief reprieve is stolen away and Mac's shoulders slump again.

Reese enters the room with a tray. Mac's eyes widen at the vials and syringes.

"First day's the worst," McClain says, with a half-hearted apology. "Along with the vaccine, we have to give you human rabies immunoglobulin."

Jack glances between McClain and MacGyver, with a pit stop on Reese's tray.

"It's a serum created when volunteers are injected with rabies so their immune systems create antibodies," the doc starts to explain.

"People volunteer to get injected with rabies?" Jack asks, raising his eyebrows incredulously. "I'm sorry I ever called any of your dumb ideas dumb, Mac."

"No, this is really cool, Jack," Mac says, suddenly distracted by science. "The volunteer's immune system makes antibodies, like they would after any other infection or vaccine. Then they can harvest these antibodies and inject them into other people to immediately start fighting off an infection while giving my immune system a chance to start making my own."

"Sounds a little like the way the apocalypse is going to start. I'm mean that's how I'd do it," Jack says," but if it helps you lets get going on this." Jack makes a hurry up motion to Reese.

"Good thing that you have no idea how to make a virulent vaccine then," Mac teases.

"Biology ain't your thing either man."

"But at least I understand the science of it."

The science and Jack's rant about zombies isn't enough to distract him when Reese actually begins giving him the shots.

"It has to go into each of the punctures," she explains sympathetically. It's viscous and the sheer volume of fluid that is injected hurts. She systematically gives him the injections into each toothmark. "You doing alright?" she checks in with each shot, watching his face for signs of distress.

"Great," the grimace belies the word.

Reese flicks the safety mechanism to cap the needle. "You are doing great." She encourages.

Jack makes himself watch. He wants to turn away but this is his fault. His idea. And his boy is paying the price for it.

How do parents do it? Take their kids in for inoculations. At least Mac is grown and understands what's going on. Understands better than Jack what's going on. Even though he's self-proclaimed not interested in biology, he was geeking out about the science until a minute ago. There's no fear or betrayal when he looks over, away from the needle entering his arm and makes eye contact with Jack. He even holds back a flinch, probably to spare Jack's heart.

It's not a big deal. They frequently need immunizations and boosters. It's just so many. On top of still needing stitches. On top of a dog bite. On top of a low grade fever and a hike through the rain and a bruise on his jaw and shoulder. 

It's just _rabies_.

He remembers being six when there was a rabid raccoon terrorizing the ranch, and his grandad taking care of it. Taking care of it was a euphemism. Jack knows that there's no cure. In an animal, it's killing it before it has a chance to hurt someone else. In a human, it's ride out the symptoms and pray. The doc promised that between the vaccines and the little goblins that the chance of Mac contracting rabies was less than one percent. Mac assures him that statistically there's no chance of him getting sick.

But still. Rabies.

"Jack's looking a little pale. Need to sit down?" Reese brings his attention back to the moment.

Mac turns his head to look at his partner with a smirk.

"I'm good, I'm good," Jack waves off the concern, but decides to focus on Mac's face, not Reese's actions. Or her really long needles.

"Everything we've been through and watching this is what's going to get to you?"

"I don't like needles, man."

"I've seen you stitch yourself up."

_"What does it matter to ya, when you've got a job to do, you've got to do it well..._ " Jack sings, and takes a deep breath.

"Don't."

_"You've got to give the other fella hell_ ," he holds that last screeching note.

"Please stop singing."

"It's a great song."

"I'm not complaining about the song."

"You've got to admit, even with the number of explosions you've set off in your life, that was about the coolest moment, ever."

"Yeah, when Paul McCartney did it. You're not McCartney."

"Dude is like pushin' eighty and can still get it."

Reese smiles, injecting the last dose of the immunoglobulin into the muscle near Mac's shoulder. Her distraction technique worked perfectly, as always. "Still doing okay, Mac?

He nods.

"Almost done."

"He's not done?" Jack's voice raises.

Mac shakes his head miserably. "I still need the rabies shot. To get my body to start making my own antibodies."

"And a tetanus booster," Reese says. "But we're going to give you about a fifteen minute break. We want to make sure you don't have an allergic reaction to the HRIG." She slips a blood pressure cuff around Mac's arm again.

Jack collapses into a chair, rubbing his arm as it aches in sympathy. "Mac, I'm sorry. My dumb idea. This should be me."

"It's not your fault," Mac mumbles around the thermometer.

"Why don't you lay back and rest while we wait," Reese suggests, handing both men a bottle of Gatorade. "Dr. McClain has a feeling you're not going to feel much like eating once you get home."

Mac shrugs. He was mildly hungry on the plane, but his appetite has disappeared since arriving in medical.

"Since we have to watch you for an allergic reaction to the immunoglobulin and the vaccine anyway, we'll put that IV to good use and top you off on some fluids and electrolytes. And we'll give you a dose of antibiotics."

"Sneaky."

"I'm just always thinking," she gestures to the beverages. "Drink up boys."

* * *

  
Jack's GTO rumbles in the driveway. Muffled, familiar voices argue as they near the house. Bozer smiles.

They aren't too much later than their anticipated return time, so the mission must not have been a complete disaster. Just in time for a really late lunch or a really early dinner. He resists the urge to peek into the oven again, instead he heads towards the front of the house as the voices get closer and clearer.

"Let me get the door."

"I can use my arms. Should use them, it'll help with the muscle stiffness from the shots."

"But doc said to be careful not to pop your stitches."

"I can carry my bag and I can turn a door knob."

So much for a not disaster of a mission, Bozer worries about the state his friends will be in when the door opens.

"What happened to you guys?" Bozer asks, taking in their disheveled appearance once they cross the threshold.

"Ah," Jack pauses, not sure where to even begin... "Captured by pirates."

"Locked in a cage."

"Bitten by a dog."

Mac holds up his bandaged arm and winces.

Jack winces too. "My man's had a rough day."

Bozer hurries over, inspecting the stark white bandage wrapped around Mac's bicep.

"I'm okay, Boze," Mac reassures, but allows his friend to fuss over the bandages and torn shirt. "Really, I'm fine. Just tired. Ready to go to bed."

Jack and Bozer exchange worried looks at Mac's admittance of his fatigue.

"You want something to eat? I've got the Korean pork tacos with pineapple snow pea salsa going, but I'll make you anything you want."

Mac's lip curls up, considering for a moment, then shakes his head.

"Doc said you should try to eat something," Jack reminds.

Mac frowns. "I just don't think I can right now."

"Nauseous?"

"Just tired," Mac says, but both friends can see the tension around his mouth, how his eyes squint in the afternoon light. "Ready to sleep until my next appointment."

Bozer looks to Jack for guidance. He's about to ask, but a surreptitious shake of the older man's head stops him. Jack will explain later.

"I'll camp out here and we can eat Bozer's culinary masterpiece when you wake up."

"You don't have to stay."

"You want to hog the tacos all to yourself? I'm hurt, dude."

Mac rolls his eyes. "Eat your tacos. I'm going to take a shower."

"Hey, Mac! That's good news! No hydrophobia," Jack calls after Mac's retreating form, but gets no reply.

Once they hear the click of Mac's bedroom door, Bozer rounds on Jack. "Okay. Spill."

Jack walks towards the kitchen, sniffing the air as he goes. "This smells amazing."

"And until you tell me what's going on you don't get any," Bozer smacks Jack's reaching hands with a spatula.

"Just what we told you. Captured by pirates. Locked in a cage. Bitten by a dog. A hike through a flood to exfil. And then like seven shots in Phoenix Med, plus stitches and a dose of antibiotics which you know always messes with his belly."

"Seven?"

Jack nods, explaining the course of treatment Mac went through for potential rabies exposure. "He's gotta go back for more too. Just one shot, each of the next times, but he's gotta go on days three, seven and fourteen and he's feeling pretty grumpy about that."

Bozer starts pulling new pots out of the cabinets. "Okay, so classic pot roast, with potatoes and carrots. I need to stay away from anything too spicy, if he's nauseated, so Szechuan chicken is out. Probably shouldn't go acidic either, so no on tomato soup, maybe chicken noodle, but he'll think I think he's sick and he might fight back on that one."

Jack smiles and reaches back towards the oven, Bozer's distracted now so he probably won't get his hand smacked. "He's a little feverish too, probably will be all week because they're trying to ramp up his immune system."

"Chicken soup for sure then," Bozer opens the refrigerator, rummaging through. "I'm going to need to make another grocery run. I planned for barbecues and cook outs, not comfort food." As he shuts the fridge door he leans around the corner, peering down the hallway towards the bedrooms, his brow furrowed. "You got him?"

"I got him."

Bozer nods. "Anything else we need to worry about?"

"Keep him eating, keep him drinking. Watch his fever. Let him sleep."

"Just like old times then. I think we can handle that."

* * *

Jack is pretty sure that every pot, pan and dish that is owned by the MacGyver Bozer household is in use. Cooking is what Bozer does. It's how he shows he cares. The more he cooks, the more he cares. Jack can remember the immediate post-Army days. It was like Bozer was on a mission to help Mac regain the weight he lost after his injuries in a week. Up before dawn, cooking and clattering pans and driving Jack nuts, because there was also the added tension of suddenly having a third part-time roommate in the house. None of them were quite sure how this thing was supposed to work. Bozer had spent his entire life looking after Mac. And Jack had just devoted the rest of his to doing the same. They circled each other with suspicion and jealousy, but careful to keep Mac unaware of their petty squabbles.  
  
That was then. Now Jack feels lucky to have gotten the chance to secretly adopt Mac's best friend too.  
  
He helps keep the dishes in the sink manageable, between napping on the couch, the hike wiped him out too, and a series of action movies. And if Jack and Bozer act out a few favorite scenes, and maybe break a dish or two while doing so, no one will ever know except them. Mac certainly won't notice a missing glass.  
  
It's getting late though. The sun setting and they haven't heard a peep from Mac since he disappeared into his bedroom a few hours ago. Jack's going to give him about another thirty minutes before he tries to wake him.  
  
As if aware of the countdown, there's a creak of a door opening down the hall, and a few seconds later Mac pads down the hall, bear feet, pajamas and hair sticking up at all angles.  
  
"There he is," Jack says when the kid comes into view. "How're you doing, bud?"  
  
Mac shrugs, making his way into the living room to plop on the couch and then flop over onto his side, head against the armrest.  
  
"You want something to eat?" Bozer asks leaning over the counter. "We've got all your favorites."  
  
Mac's face scrunches. "Yeah, I guess I should. I'm supposed to eat with the antibiotics." With a sigh he stands and heads back towards the kitchen. He snags the bag from the pharmacy, nearly buried on the counter, pulling out the orange bottle and reading the directions.

Jack fills a glass of water, turning to look over his shoulder at Mac. "You look a little flushed."

"I feel warm."

Jack set the glass down and pushed Mac into one of the stools at the peninsula. "Let me take your temperature before you eat or drink anything."  
  
Mac grabs the thermometer from Jack's hand, sliding it into his mouth. While waiting for the reading he submits to Jack brushing his hair from his forehead, the motion is soothing, and the back of Jack's hand feels cool resting against his face, gauging his temperature.  
  
"About the same," Jack says reading the probe after it beeps.  
  
Mac grunts. Jack scoots the glass of water across the countertop, while Bozer passes a bowl of soup and fresh from the over bread. His friends have been busy this afternoon.  
  
The soup is delicious and he finishes most of it. Which has Jack and Bozer beaming in delight. He chokes down his horse pill sized antibiotics and then the trio settles into the living room. Mac swears that he stayed awake long enough for Obi Wan to direct Luke to the Dagobah system but Jack tells him he was snoring by the middle of the opening scrawl.

* * *

"You're up early," Bozer says as he steps onto the deck, where Jack is sitting watching the sun gild the cityscape. Bozer's coffee cup steams. Its cool enough in the dim morning light for Jack to have a blanket tucked around him.

"Couldn't sleep. Didn't want to wake anyone."

Bozer nods. Sleep is often elusive for both Mac and Jack. Marred by visions of the past, and taunting fears that their eleventh hour rescues weren't victories. Mac tinkers and putters to keep his hands busy and his mind occupied. Or runs like he's trying to outdistance his thought, like the devil himself is on his heels, and maybe sometimes he is.

Bozer's pretty sure if Jack were at home he'd be an hour into a brutal work out, excising his own demons with sweat. But if Jack can't sleep when he's at the house, he settles onto the deck, as always, sticking close. If Jack is staying over and having trouble sleeping, there's a good chance Mac is too. And Jack remains vigilant for whatever nightmares might crop up in his partner's subconscious.

"What's your excuse?"

"Thought maybe if I made breakfast Mac would eat something before his doctor's appointment. The shots really did put off his appetite."

Exhaustion from the mission, and the trauma of the bite. Headache, nausea and mild dizziness from the treatment. Mac moved from his bed to the couch, and out on the deck for a while and back over the last day and a half. His temperature spikes draining him. And all of Bozer's gastronomical masterpieces barely tempted Mac's appetite. Through sheer willpower and a few threats, Jack convinced him to sip on Gatorade and eat half a bowl of soup between naps.

"McClain and Reese both swear it's not going to be as bad today," Jack says. He's checked in with them more than once, regularly taking and reporting Mac's temperature. Snapping and sending a photo of the wound when he changed the dressing yesterday morning. "It's just the rabies vaccine. No goblins or tetris."

Bozer winces.

"What? Too obvious? You think I can do better?"

"Maybe don't use both at the same time?" Bozer suggests. "It's funnier if you get immunoglobulin right, because he won't be expecting that, and then wham, right into tetris, surprise him."

Jack nods. "I'll work on it." 

"And the delivery, you're smirking too much before you say it."

"You can turn the man into a field agent, but he's always a director at heart."

"Sometimes I miss those days. The hustle, you know, to make it. Even the flipping burgers wasn't that bad."

"Watching Mac glue golf balls to his face for the CGI," Jack laughs. "Do you regret it?"

"Nah man, not really. A little nostalgic maybe. Wish I didn't know all the ways you guys risked your lives every day," Bozer shakes his head. "Sometimes I wonder about all the stuff you were able to sneak past me."

Jack laughs. "It was easier that Mac's kind of a weird dude to begin with."

"And I just trusted that Mac would need security to go to these conventions with him."

"Nerd fights breaking out in the labs."

"I mean, Mac got into a lot of fights in middle school. I guess I thought somethings never change? I don't know." Bozer glances at his watch. "I'll get the waffles, you get Mac?"

"I think I drew the short straw on that one."

Jack taps on the bedroom door as he enters.

"Hey Mac, buddy," Jack calls softly. A Mac sized lump under a mound of blankets grunts. "Time to get up, bud."

"I'm up," the tired voice answers but the lump doesn't move.

"Yeah? Doesn't look like it."

Mac pulls the blanket from over his head with a sigh. He looks from Jack to the clock on his bedside table with a frown.

"Thought you might like some breakfast before we go."

Mac's frown deepens.

"Bozer made waffles. It'll make your meds go down easier. You shouldn't take them on an empty stomach."

Mac's head flops back onto the pillow.

"Uh-uh, come on, kid. It'll make everyone feel a little better to hear that you're eating something." He waits for a response. "Mac."

"Yeah, I'm coming," with reluctance Mac pulls himself from his bed. He sways on his feet for a moment, before Jack is at his side. Mac shrugs off his hands. "I'm good. Could you give me a minute?"

"Alright, you got it. But shake a leg. They're expecting us. And I can't guarantee that Bozer's waffles will still be waiting if you keep moving like molasses on a cold morning." 

* * *

Mac perches on the exam table in a teal t-shirt, having shed his plaid button down, as Reese obtains his vital signs, completes a brief physical assessment and checks his stitches.

Jack hovers.

Mac resists the urge to roll his eyes. Or say something snarky around the thermometer. Jack always hovers when Mac's in Medical. Sometimes, usually, it's reassuring, even if he complains about the lack of privacy. It's one of the many ways Jack shows he cares.

Right now though, he's feeling on edge. Restless. Confined.

"Still a low grade fever. How's your appetite?"

Mac grimaces. "Not great."

"Meaning, he ate half a waffle this morning."

"Nausea?"

Mac shrugs. "Just not hungry."

"Heart rate's a little fast. Blood pressure's a little low," she says as she releases Mac's arm from the cuff. "Any dizziness."

"He lost his balance this morning."

"That was just clumsy, not really dizzy."

"I'm going to run this by Dr. McClain," Reese begins and Mac sighs. "Then we'll get you going. You need the protein for wound healing. The calories for fighting an infection, and you need to stay hydrated. I think that's where your dizziness is coming from."

"I know," Mac mumbles. "And I'm not dizzy."

A few minutes and one shot later, Mac is only too ready to slide off the exam table and leave behind Phoenix Med, at least for a few days. Except instead of turning right and heading towards the elevators to take them out of the building and to the parking structure, Mac heads deeper into the building.

"Hey bud, where you goin'?"

He ignores Jack's question, pushing the button to call the elevator.

"You forget how to navigate the building? Or we just taking the scenic route?"

"I'm bored at home."

"You haven't been awake long enough to be bored."

"Well, I'm tired of sleeping too. I need something to do," He steps into the elevator and selects a floor.

Jack jumps in after him. "Wrong level for the lab."

Mac ignores Jack and continues towards the war room.

If Matty is surprised by the intrusion she doesn't show it. "How are you doing, Blondie?" She turns from the screen to assess her agent. She glances back at Jack who shrugs, then leans against the glass wall next to the door. Obviously, not expecting to be staying very long, but wisely letting Matty and Mac duke out this round.

"I'm fine. Just came from medical."

Matty raises an eyebrow. "And you thought you'd just stop by for a visit before heading home?"

"I don't need to go home. I'm feeling good and ready to get back to work."

"Mac, you're on the bench for at least another eleven days. If I wasn't annoyed with you for trying to con me, I'd almost think it was cute that you think I haven't already been briefed on your doctor's orders."

"But they don't need to see me again for four days. And Jack's already doing his mother hen routine. I just need to get out and do something."

"What happens if I send you on a mission and you don't get back in time for your next shots?"

Mac's gaze drops. "It could just be something local."

"Mac, I'm not risking you or your health for anything short of the zombie apocalypse. And even then, that's only if Jack can't handle it on his own."

"Jack 'Zombie Killer' Dalton, I like it."

Matty spares Jack an unamused glance before focusing on Mac again. "Go home, eat something. Get some sun. Think of it as a really terrible vacation."

Mac looks like he's going to protest, then appears to think better of it. He is totally and completely outnumbered. He slowly turns and heads for the door, Jack pushes up from the wall ready to keep following closely.

"And no heading to the lab. You have a fever."

"But I'm not contagious," Mac sputters, turning back to face his boss.

"Go home, MacGyver. Rest. Once your fever breaks we can discuss lab privileges." Up until this point, Matty's voice held a ring of sympathy for her young agent. She could see the slight flush on his otherwise pale face. Mac's skin going from pale to almost translucent whenever he's ill or injured. She can see the way he holds himself stiffly. Unfortunately, she understands all too well that if given half a chance Mac will work himself into the ground. She hardens her heart and her voice, raising an eyebrow and daring him to argue with her.

Mac opens his mouth, to argue, protest, but she interrupts."Unless you really want to spend the entire fourteen day incubation period in medical?"

Mac's eyes widen and Matty holds his gaze, waiting for his answer.

"No ma'am," Mac says contritely, turning back to head out the door.

Matty catches Jack's eye as he leaves, looking for his assessment of the younger man. Nobody knows Mac better.

Jack shrugs. "He'll be okay."

Matty smiles. "You better catch up with him before he gives you the slip."

* * *

  
Jack pulls up to the house to take Mac to his third appointment. Despite his protests, Mac sent him home to sleep in his own bed two days ago, feeling flustered, confined and way too fussed over. That doesn't mean Jack hasn't spent all his waking hours at the house, even if he does leave at night.

Between his worry and Bozer's, he recognizes their concern might have started to stifle Mac. Way beyond stifle, if he's honest. Cyclical low grade fevers, left Mac achy and uncomfortable, and his friends hovering. But the frequency and duration have been decreasing. Which they realized because Bozer and Jack continued keeping a log of Mac's temperatures despite his exasperation at their overprotective caretaking. Mac should be grateful for the thoughtfulness of his friends. Not annoyed at their concern and the frequency of their assessments of his health. That might have been a big factor in Mac sending Jack home.

It's a chilly foggy morning. Mac is sitting on the porch waiting, and practically in the car before Jack's even pulled all the way into the drive.

His hair still damp from his shower, uncombed and shaggy. He looks tired. Jack resists the urge to comment. Or to ruffle the hair.

Mac's drowning in an oversized zip up hoodie that Jack thinks looks familiar, and has been missing from his wardrobe rotation for a while. Not that he'll ever mention it. His heart grows about three sizes at the idea of Mac seeking comfort from wearing his clothes.

Mac settles in the front seat, hands covered by too long sleeves, and he wraps his arms around himself with a shiver.

Jack flicks on the heat. "I half expected I'd need a bugle to get you out of bed this morning."

"It gets me out of the house for a few hours at least," Mac flips the heat off, and cracks a window.

With a frown, Jack takes his hand from the wheel, settling it against Mac's forehead. "You like being off work so much you're trying to catch pneumonia, sitting outside with wet hair?"

"Hands on the wheel, Jack," Mac grouses, pulling away from his partner's examining touch.

"You're trying to scam everyone!" Jack yells with realization. "Cold shower, cool morning, windows open. Did you eat ice for breakfast?" He's fuming.

"I'm not," Mac protests. "I'm just stacking the deck in my favor."

"Did your fever spike or something? Bozer said he'd call," Jack is pulling out his cell phone to check in and possibly scold Bozer for not keeping him updated like he promised he would when Jack reluctantly left for his own home.

"No, honestly, Jack, it didn't."

"I don't know if I trust you," he makes no move to put the phone away.

"I'm fine!"

"Then what kind of angle are you playing here? You're so desperate to get back to work that you're willing to risk your health."

"I'm not trying to pull anything."

Jack scoffs.

"I'm just tired of being at home. I'm tired of everyone taking my temperature and hovering. Bozer's cooked more food than we could eat in a month. You and Riley are spending all your free time hanging around the house. Even Bozer and Leanna stayed in last night to keep an eye on me instead of going to see that movie they had tickets for. I appreciate the concern, I really do, but it's just such a dumb reason to get benched. I'm not even actually sick, and it's not like I was shot or anything," Mac sits back against the seat.

"We're just worried about you."

"I know," Mac's voice soft. "But you don't need to be. I'm fine."

"And I'm feeling a little guilty," Jack confesses. "I let the pirates get their hands on you and throw you in a cage."

"You can't protect me from everything."

"I can try." Jack's voice steady and solid, like his presence, like his promise. "My idea to escape gets you bitten. And I know you keep saying that you're fine, but you're still not feeling yourself, and there's not anything I can do to fix it."

"I feel like, after everything we've been through, getting this much time off and this much sympathy because I have to get a couple of shots..." Mac shakes his head.

"I think you're forgetting, it's not just the shots or the fever, it's the potential exposure to rabies. People die from that Mac."

"The effectiveness of post-exposure vaccination and immunoglobulin administration is greater than ninety-nine percent."

"I know. Ninety-nine percent. Practically less than no chance, you keep saying that."

Mac nods. "It's true."

"Those are pretty good odds, I guess."

"So you can stop worrying, and feeling guilty."

"Oh, I'm never gonna stop worrying about you, hoss. But I'll try to ease up on the hovering a little bit."

A half-smile graces Mac's lips. "I guess that's all I can ask for."

"How about this, we send Bozer and Leanna on that date they missed last night. Then just you and me, your firepit and Bozer's leftovers."

"I don't need a babysitter."

"I promise I won't even take your temperature once," Jack holds up two fingers

"Pretty sure it's a three finger salute, Jack."

"How would you know, weren't you kicked out of the scouts?"

"Quit. Quit the scouts. Why does no one remember that part of the story?"

* * *

  
"I can get there from anywhere in the building in eighty-se-seven seconds or less." Jack clinks his beer bottle against Mac's.

Mac snorts. "You've timed this?" Then seeing Jack's raised eyebrow through the dim glow of the firelight continues. "Yeah, I guess that's not implausible." He stumbles over the word as he laughs. "Do you run drills or...?"

The look Jack shoots at Mac is full of distrust. "You making fun of me?"

"I'm just wondering if you've accounted for all the variables."

"Only one I'm missing is when I have to knock you out because you're being a smart ass and not listening to me. Want to practice that one?" Jack asks, taking another long pull from the bottle in his hand.

"If Phoenix is under siege, you'll probably need me solving problems, not hiding in some closet."

"Titanium plated walls, with a hand scanner and six digit access code."

"Your brain must be a weird place."

"My brain?" Jack sputters. "Mr. I can make a bomb out of syrup and miracle grow?"

"It was molasses and fertilizer, but yeah, I could probably make that work too."

Jack waves Mac off before he starts a science lecture, which his brain can most definitely not handle right now. "It's called self-preservation, Mac. I'm going to teach you some if it kills me."

Mac curls up in the chair, leaning his head on the armrest. "Okay, so where else?"

"You want me to tell you all my secret Stash-Mac spots?"

"Wouldn't it be more helpful in the moment if I knew where we were going?"

Jack pauses considering it.

"Like here at the house? Where would you stash me?" Mac laughs.

"Under the sink for one."

Mac's brow furrows, shaking his head. "Won't work. Won't fit."

"Sure you will," Jack scoffs. "You're scrawny. You'll fit."

"No..." Mac drags out the vowel. "Not with the U-bend and the P-trap."

Jack giggles.

"The curvy pipes," Mac traces the outline of the pipes mid air. "That's what they're called."

"We'll just have you bend around the U-bend," Jack laughs again.

"Still won't fit."

"It's either that, or I gut your polar bear like a tauntaun and shove you inside."

Mac's eyes widen comically. "Don't touch my polar bear."

"If it comes down your safety I'll gut a real polar bear and stuff you inside."

"Jack, you can't say things like that. They're a vul-vulnerable species."

"So are MacGyvers," Jack says.

Mac swallows hard. He has had too many beers, and his emotions are way too close to the surface. And he's pretty sure that he can remember through the haze, being told to stay away from alcohol while getting treated.

"So actually, you don't have a feasible location here at the house?"

Jack sputters. "We'll see about that."

* * *

  
It's well after midnight, but every single light in the house is on when Bozer gets home.

That's not totally unusual, not if Mac is distractedly working on a project. Except Mac and Jack explicitly promised when they shooed him out the door this evening that they were planning a very quiet night, relaxing on the patio. And Bozer gave them strict instructions to rest. Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars and absolutely do not work on any projects.

So all the lights on in the kitchen when Mac's been bored for days, cooped up with a fever and on a prescription for antibiotics, means that Bozer isn't touching a single appliance in the house until Mac is healed up enough to take a look what kinds of "upgrades" he might have given them while under the influence.

Bozer opens the front door slowly, peering through the crack to see what he's walking into. Nothing looks out of place yet. He tentatively crosses the threshold.

"Ouch, Jack, stop pulling."

"Bend your knee more."

"It doesn't bend in that direction."

He should just turn around and leave, head back to Leanna's and spend the night there, forget about the worry that sent him back to the house. This does not sound like a situation that he's capable of dealing with.

"Jack, it won't fit."

"Mac? Jack?" He calls out, heading for the kitchen. He stops.

Mac is half inside the cabinet under the sink. Jack crouches in a squat next to him, apparently unaware, or uncaring of the death glare Mac is shooting in his direction, because he beams up at Bozer. "Hey, you're back. We could use some help."

"What are you guys doing?" Bozer says looking between Mac and Jack.

"Mac doesn't think he'll fit under the sink."

"Because I don't."

"Duck your head, I think it'll close now."

Bozer frowns at the collection of bottles on the counter. "Are you supposed to be drinking?"

"Snitches get stitches, Wilt," Jack warns, as he shuts the cabinet door, it lightly bumps against the top of Mac's head, and doesn't shut completely. "Told you, you'd fit."

"This doesn't count."

"You're under the sink."

"I might never get out from here," Mac grouses, pushing the cupboard door open again."We'll probably have to dismantle the whole thing."

"Well, at least we know. Can you imagine trying to do this in a hurry? That polar bear idea is looking better and better."

"Don't touch my polar bear."

"Yeah, but Mac, we could line the inside with kevlar. I bet you could make something."

Mac pauses. "I could-- I could actually do something like that. I've been working on a project to create my own polyarylamide fabric."

Jack squints at him. "How did you say that?"

"Basically kevlar," Mac explains. "But with an increased tensile strength and moisture wicking capabilities."

"That polar bear sounds like the perfect place to test it."

"You're still not touching my polar bear!"

"I wouldn't touch him, just shoot at him, a little bit."

"Nobody is shooting anything," Bozer interrupts. "Jack, get Mac out from under the sink. Then both of you go to bed. You're going to clean up the kitchen and the deck in the morning."

"Somebody's grumpy," Jack whispered sotto voce. "Home kinda early, maybe he's frustrated."

Mac giggles.

* * *

  
  
"All finished."

"That's it. I'm done," Mac breathes a small sigh of relief. He doesn't want to see the inside of medical, or a thermometer or a hypodermic needle for a very long time.

"We will have you follow up in two weeks, and draw a titre to double check, but you're free," Reese says. "Get out of here."

Mac slides off the exam table, and accepts Jack's offered fist bump as he slides his arms into his plaid shirt.

"How do you want to celebrate man?"

"Not sushi," Mac makes a face, knowing that Bozer lost a planking contest to Leanna for the right to choose where to go for lunch.

"Wherever you want, man. I've got more of those sandwich fixings in the fridge."

"Also anywhere but home. I've had enough of that for a while," Mac says as he pulls his vibrating phone out of his pocket. "Hey Matty, I'm all finished." Mac puts the phone on speaker.

"That's great Blondie, because remember how I said I wouldn't call you for anything less than the zombie apocalypse?"

"Don't tell me you got me the zombie apocalypse," Jack asks with just a hint of too much excitement in his voice. "It's not even Christmas yet!"

"The CDC has asked for our help with an inventory discrepancy."


	2. One Percent

Mac finishes securing the tarp and duct tape over the closet door. Adrenaline pumping through his veins. He hopes that's all that's pumping through his veins. He leans heavily against the wall, shoving his hands deep into his pockets.  
  
"Is that going to hold him?" Bozer asks, eyes wide as he checks out Mac's handiwork. Reluctantly releasing his hold on the door.  
  
"Hopefully long enough for a biohazard team to arrive."  
  
Jack looks warily at what is in his opinion much too thin a barrier between his family and a deadly virus. "Am I the only having trouble wrapping my brain around this? Guy infects himself with a super deadly, no cure virus to kill one man? Wouldn't like anything else have been easier?"  
  
Bozer shakes his head. "I couldn't even work that into one of my scripts. Mac wouldn't let me anyway, cause no one would believe it."  
  
Mac stares blankly off into the distance. "No one would believe it. The odds are too ridiculous."  
  
"I don't know about you guys, but I'm ready to go home," Jack says.  
  
"I'd love to," Mac says, shaking himself from his thoughts and regretting for the first time how he spent the last two weeks griping at his enforced confinement at the house. "But I'm not sure how long it will be before we're allowed to."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"We, uh, we might still have a deadly virus inside of us."  
  
Jack's face pales.  
  
"We'll have to wait to be cleared. Speaking of, you guys go, contain the rest of the guests. Don't let them leave, but especially don't let them up here. And don't cause a panic," Mac instructs.  
  
"What are you going to do?" Jack asks.  
  
"I'm doing to stay here, make sure Dr. Luca doesn't try to get out. I don't think he'll have the strength to break through the door, but someone should stay here, just in case."  
  
"This virus has a ninety-nine percent mortality rate. Maybe I should be the one to stay, and if he tries to get out I'll just shoot him."  
  
"You're not shooting him," Mac snaps.  
  
"I'm not gonna kill him, just maim him, slow him down."  
  
"First of all, you're telling me that if he broke through that door, all sweaty and shaky, you wouldn't empty your clip into him? And second, he wouldn't survive a gunshot wound right now."  
  
"I'm just saying, Mac, he's dead anyway, right? That virus is gonna kill him."  
  
"Look there may not be much of a chance, but there is still a chance."  
  
"One percent, man" Bozer interjects. "I mean, you think he's coming back from this?"  
  
"You spent the last two weeks telling me not to worry because a one percent chance of you contracting rabies was basically saying there was no chance," Jack argues.  
  
"There are always statistical anomalies. I'm not letting you kill him."  
  
"I wasn't just going to execute him, only if he breaks out, puts people at risk. I'm not letting him get close enough to take anyone else with him."  
  
"Just go contain the house," Mac's tone brusque.  
  
"Alright, alright. Come on, Bozer, we'll leave Mac to his grumpy statistics," Jack exaggerates a whisper, his eyes not leaving Mac as he backs from the room.  
  
When he's sure his friends are gone, Mac pulls his hand from his pocket, flexing his fingers as he watches blood well from the scratches on the back of his hand.  
  
"One percent," he whispers.

* * *

  
Jack stands with Bozer on the porch, waiting their turn to be loaded into an ambulance with the dozens of other potential victims.  
  
"All that, and Dr. Luca didn't even succeed in infecting anyone."  
  
"We hope," Jack says his face twisting, holding his stomach. "I think I'm feeling a little nauseated. Do you feel that?"  
  
"It's probably just adrenaline," Bozer says, watching the stretcher with the doctor wheel past. "We weren't actually that close to him. Mac subdued him pretty quickly."  
  
"Speaking of, where is he? They got Dr. Not-feeling-so-good contained so he doesn't need to guard the door anymore," Jack turns to look back into the house.  
  
"Maybe they're just checking him out on sight, since he had the closest contact?"  
  
Jack's jaw tightens.  
  
"Yeah, maybe," he mutters. He stalks towards the door when a member of the hazmat team stops him, instructing him that the house is off limits and the ambulance is ready for them. He has a bad feeling about this. His guts churning with anxiety, and he doesn't think it's his overactive, sometime hypochondriatic imagination. This feels a little bit too much like his MacGyver sense tingling.  
  
"What about Mac? Agent MacGyver, he was up in the room with Dr. Luca," Jack protests.  
  
"He'll be transported momentarily."  
  
"We'll wait for him," Bozer says. "We're all together anyway."  
  
"He'll need to be transported in his own ambulance."  
  
Jack's whole world twists with the next words.  
  
"Agent MacGyver had a significant exposure."  


* * *

  
Mac lies on his back staring at the ceiling. He can feel the cold rush of fluids trailing up his arm from his IV, one in his forearm, the second in his antecubital. A pulse ox on his finger, leads from a heart monitor attached to his chest and a blood pressure cuff squeezes his upper arm at intervals.  
  
A paradox. Potentially the worst thing that's ever happened to him, except it's hard to reconcile it, because he doesn't feel that bad. Yet. The hazmat suits and the ever-increasing vials of blood taken from his arm seem excessive in comparison to how "fine" he currently feels.  
  
Lake Como seemed more serious. Cairo was definitely worse. Right now he's just laying in a bed, waiting out the odds.  
  
There's a lot of time to think in this stark isolation room.  
  
There have been so many times that Mac thought he was going to die. Too many for his young life. They were usually filled with adrenaline-fueled fury. This quiet contemplation sends his mind racing. No distractions in what could be his last hours.  
  
Worse than death, is dying alone.  
  
Jack and Bozer are sequestered somewhere else in the facility, dealing with their own potential exposure. He should have had a better plan for dealing with this superbug, one that didn't put his team at risk. He'll never forgive himself if something happens to either one of them.  
  
He'll probably never know though.  
  
By the time the twenty-four hour incubation period is up, confirming once and for all that they're safe, he'll be deep in the throes of fever.  
  
He's not sure if the dryness in his throat is from the recycled air in the negative pressure room, or if it's the first manifestation of symptoms from the disease that will kill him.  
  
Mac runs his mostly free hand through his hair. He didn't even get to see Jack or Bozer after he sent them to contain the rest of the house, closing the door to the room. Alone and waiting.

Waiting for a containment team. Waiting for symptoms or the virus to appear in his blood. Waiting to die.

He counts the ceiling tiles. And the drips per minute in the chamber on the IV tubing, calculating the rate even though he can read it programmed onto the pump.

He counts the sympathetic eyes, the only features he can see on his nurses and doctors, hidden behind masks.

He counts his pulse even though he can watch the trace of his heartbeat on the monitor over his bed. Its just a touch to fast for his usual resting heart rate.

Another early symptom or the effects of anxiety.

Let's call it what it is, fear.

He's used to keeping his mind filled with math and chemistry and dozens of equations. There isn't much in the room to distract him from his mortality.

Fear and regret.

He won't get to see Jack or Bozer, Riley or Matty. Won't get to say goodbye.

Doesn't even know what he would say. There aren't words that would be sufficient. Or it there are, he doesn't have them. Jack would know what to say. A joke to try to ease the pain of impending loss. Words of encouragement and affirmation. He would make sure each member of their small family knew they were important... loved. Mac would never be able do it justice.

Goodbyes aren't his style anyway. _Wonder where I learned that particular trait,_ he thinks bitterly.  
  
He shivers, and pulls the blanket at the foot of the bed up to his shoulders.  


* * *

  
"Damn it, Mac," Jack paces the length of the room where he's quarantined with Bozer. They've been through the decontamination process, examined, vital signs obtained, and bled practically dry from the number of blood samples taken. Now they wait.  
  
And worry.  
  
No one has answers for them. Watch and see. Except that they won't let Jack see Mac. That sends him spiraling into a tizzy. Shoulder tense. He can't sit still, so he paces. Up and down the room  
  
Bozer sits, legs crisscrossed on his cot, watching Jack pace. At least they're together. For now.  
  
Jack scrubs his face. "He knew. Back at the house. He knew he was exposed and he didn't say anything."  
  
"What would you have done if he told you then?"

"I could have stayed with him."

"He never would have risked you like that."

"That's not his decision to make."  
  
"And if your roles were reversed. Would you have told him?"  
  
Jack's jaw snaps shut.  
  
"You had a job to do."  
  
Jack's heart twists at the words, remembering singing them to Mac. Teasing him, distracting him. Two weeks of rabies shots seemed at the time like the worst thing that could have happened. Perspectives change quickly.

"It's my job to protect him."

"But you couldn't. Not from this. And even if there weren't civilians to contain, Mac couldn't have let you stay."

"I know," Jack says quietly. "But--"  
  
"I never thought I'd see you giving up on him."  
  
Jack whirls to face the younger man. "I'm not giving up on him. You heard them. One percent survival rate."  
  
"So it'll be him," Bozer states firmly. "He's healthy. Eats right, runs a million miles every day. If anyone can beat the odds its Mac."  
  
"Bozer, he's been run down these last two weeks. What if he can't." Jack resumes his pacing. Short quick steps. Up to the wall. Nearly through the wall. He spins on his heel, stalking back towards the opposite side of the room.  
  
He stops at the observation window, arm raised. At the last second slowing the descent of his fist so it merely pushes against the glass.  
  
"I can't think like that," Bozer's voice soft.  
  
Jack glances over his shoulder as Bozer continues.  
  
"I sent him off to Afghanistan and just had to believe he would be fine. Ignore all the reasons why he wouldn't be. He goes off on missions all the time, and I have to wait in the War Room, or the van. I have to trust that he can do it."  
  
Jack turns back toward the window, pressing close, trying to peer down the hall.

"Yeah. Yeah, you're right. He can do it," Jack says. "If anyone can survive, it'll be Mac. But he shouldn't have to do this alone."  


* * *

  
Mac wakes slowly, uncomfortably, with the idea that something isn't right. The sheets beneath him soaked. His pillow drenched in sweat. He rolls onto his back, pushing damp hair back from his sweaty forehead. Flinging away the sheet, he shivers when the cool air hits his skin.  
  
Guess that answers the questions of whether or not he was exposed.  
  
He rolls onto his side, groaning as he pushes up from the bed. Stumbling as he makes his way to the adjoining bathroom. His hands grasp the IV pole, squeaky wheels rolling beside him. He's grateful for the support it provides his unsteady gait. Legs trembling from the exertion of the ten-foot walk.  
  
Eyes half-closed because the motion makes his vision swim. He snaps on the switch in the bathroom, brow furrowing and eyes squeezed tightly against the sudden light. He peels away the sodden hospital down, mindful of telemetry leads and IV tubing, dropping it to the floor.  
  
Splashing cool water on his face and neck, then staring at his reflection in the mirror. The harsh light does nothing to disguise his face pale, eyes sunken and bloodshot, framed with dark smudges.  
  
He holds onto the sink as a wave of dizziness washes over him.  
  
It's too early to have symptoms this severe.  
  
He's in trouble.  
  
Up until this moment, he could pretend he was in quarantine as a precaution. That later, when the twenty-four hour incubation period was up, he would tease Jack and the medical team about being overly cautious. Jack would tell him there was no such thing when it came to his health. Then he'd go home, a new appreciation for home after the minor scare.  
  
He's not going home.  
  
He might never go home.  
  
His hand dashes across his eyes in a desperate attempt to regain control of his thoughts and emotions. He takes a slow measured breath, noting tightness in his chest. An experimental cough rattles something loose and he can't stop coughing.  
  
Deep, wet, hacking coughs that twist his chest and choke him.  
  
His grip tightens on the sink for support.  
  
Spots dance across his vision.  
  
He can't catch his breath.  
  
Through his panic, he hears his name called in an accented voice. A glove-clad hand on his shoulder assists him back into his freshly made bed, and skillfully helps him don a fresh gown. An oxygen mask is placed over his mouth. He sucks in a deep breath to ease the ache in his chest. His head is gently turned and a thermometer presses into his ear.  
  
The same voice tells him about medications being pushed into his IV line, but he's too exhausted to pay attention. A moment later the oxygen mask is switched out for a nebulizer. Sweet vapor caresses his face, slipping deep into his chest and easing the spasms.  
  
He breathes deeply. It aches, but he can feel his airways relaxing with the medication. He closes his eyes and allows himself to fall back into a troubled sleep.

* * *

  
Riley shifts in her seat. Close quarters, uncomfortably upright. Her ears pop again at the change in pressure. For someone who went from almost never flying, to exclusively flying in the Phoenix jet, she got spoiled quickly. She refrains from bouncing her leg, her seat-companions too close to subject them to her anxious twitching.  
  
Matty got her on the first flight. She should just be grateful to be in the window seat, not in the middle. There's no leg room in the cramped space. Her shoulders ache from being hunched over her rig, reading the initial reports and debrief on Specimen 234.  
  
She hates to admit the level of annoyance she felt when the call came through. After being promised a week off she could feel a Jack-sized rant bubbling when her phone buzzed with Matty's number. Not that she'd ever let it loose, but she hated the idea of giving up time with her boyfriend and newly discovered grandmother.  
  
Excusing herself to take the call, she sighed before answering.  
  
"Riley," Matty's voice is firm. In control. But there's something on the edge, of her tone that makes Riley's heart skip. "This is Apollo protocol."  
  
If she had been in California, Riley would have sworn she was feeling the aftershocks of a quake.  
  
In the event of a mission gone drastically wrong, each agent has a list of who is to be contacted if they're not expected to survive. Meaning they made it through the mission, made it out and are currently alive but death is imminent. Rarely enacted because of security purposes, but in theory, it would give loved ones a chance to say goodbye.  
  
She's on that list for three agents. She thought it was redundant at the time, never expecting that she wouldn't be there if her team was in that much trouble. She's grateful for Jack's insistence now.  
  
"Who?" She whispers, it's probably not even loud enough for Matty to hear her voice. She doesn't want to know. Doesn't want to think. Doesn't want to hope. Losing any one of them would break her. Shatter her. Losing all three though. Please don't let it be all three of them.  
  
"There was a virus stolen from the CDC. Jack and Bozer are currently in quarantine because of a possible exposure."  
  
Possible exposure, Riley can work with that. Her mind races with possibilities. She can hack the CDC and WHO and any pharmaceutical company necessary to create an antidote. And Mac can...  
  
She stops. A possible exposure wouldn't initiate Apollo protocol, no matter how deadly the virus.  
  
"Mac?" She chokes around the lump in her throat.  
  
"MacGyver has been infected."  
  
Riley collapses against the wall. It's the only thing keeping her upright.  
  
"The survival rate is less than one percent."  
  
Riley doesn't remember much of the conversation after that. Billy drives her to the airport, offers to come with her, but she declines. She needs... she needs to think. To plan. To work through her guilt at not being on the mission with them when it happened. Off having adventures and kissing Billy. Meeting family she's never known when her real family is hurting. Dying.  
  
She needs to get her act together because Bozer and Jack are going to need her when she gets there.  
  
Mac is going to need her.  
  
If he's still...  
  
Riley scrubs her eyes, and turns to face the window again. She mentally urges the plane to go faster.  


* * *

  
Mac feels like he's a specimen under a microscope. Everyone wants a piece of him. Infectious disease, pulmonology, nephrology, cardiology, hematology. Each with their own ideas, assessments and blood draws. His fingers brush against the bruises on his arms from multiple lab pokes.

It feels like every time he looks up there's another gowned, gloved and masked figure in the doorway or at the observation window.

He runs a hand through his hair, using the motion to disguise his glance at the window. Sure enough, another person here to see the main attraction at the zoo. He's about to turn on his side and pull the blanket up to hide underneath.

Except.

He smiles.

And the figure smiles back.

Even with a mask covering the lower half of his face, and thick blue isolation gown making his body a shapeless blob, Mac knows those eye crinkles. He recognizes this gawker.

Jack waves, and Mac rolls his eyes with a shake of his head and a slow small smile. He scoots out of the bed, dragging his IV pole with him to the window. Jack's here. He came. Didn't leave Mac to deal with this completely alone.  
  
They talk about nothing, dumb jokes and movie quotes, but saying everything. They are good at that. The words are hard, especially at times like this, but the meaning is clear. Jack lets him know how much he cares. How much Mac means to him.   
  
His heart feels like its racing so fast it's going to tear through his chest. A tight, squeezing pain in his lungs  
  
He listens to Jack's voice. Rumbling and soothing. His head is pounding. It's getting hard for him to follow Jack's words. His thoughts a jumble, spinning so fast he can't hang onto one long enough to make sense of it.

His eyes are blurry, fatigue or tears that threaten to spill.

So much he wants to say. Wants to hear Jack laugh, say something that will take this pain away.

He leans against the window, trying to stay awake as long as possible. Doesn't want to sleep yet. Doesn't want to quietly slip away.

Doesn't want to say goodbye.

It's too soon.

It's not fair.  


* * *

He's even got blue surgical booties covering his feet.  
  
Isolation rooms are the worst.  
  
He's been a guest in a few of them. Mostly faceless nurses and doctors, muffled voices through masks and an acute sense of being contagious. The potential start of an epidemic.  
  
At least the last several times he's had Mac to help pass the time.  
  
This time he's stuck on the other side of the glass while Mac wheezes and shakes.  
  
Mac's condition has been a slow and steady decline over the last few hours. His blond hair turning dark with sweat and plastered against his forehead. He doesn't have the strength to sit at the window anymore. Doesn't have breath to spare to talk with Jack. He was panting between words. Chest heaving like he was trying to give a lecture while on mile twenty-four of a marathon.

"Go lay down for a while, Mac," Jack encouraged.

"No," Mac wheezed. "I'm alright."

"It'll be okay, bud," Jack promised. "I'll be right here."  
  
Mac is scared.  
  
So is Jack.

He stays at the window even after Mac returned to his bed, finally giving in to his exhaustion and admitting he doesn't have the strength to keep sitting up.  
  
Mac's half reclined in the bed. Weakly leaning forward while the nurse presses his stethoscope against Mac's back. Jack can almost hear the instructions to 'take a deep breath.' He can definitely see the resigned look on Mac's face right before he does, knowing it's going to send him into another coughing fit.  
  
It subsides quickly this time. It's still too long for Jack. His hand presses against the glass. "Breathe, Mac. C'mon buddy."  
  
Mac glances towards the window. He locks on Jack's face, gives a half-wave before his hand flops back against the mattress.  
  
The nurse turns, noticing the audience, and reaches to draw the privacy curtain to finish up the quick exam.  
  
Jack growls in frustration. Bad enough to be kept physically from Mac, unable to touch his kid when Mac needs him, but now he can't even see him.  
  
Jack knows that he's hurting. Has seen him in all states of sickness or injury. Has held him through fevers and aching chills. Talked him through hallucinations and flashbacks. His fingers coated in Mac's blood as he desperately tried to keep it on the inside where it belonged. No secrets between them. Absolute trust.  
  
It's that trust that allows Jack to see the fear hidden in Mac's eyes. Allows Jack to see the depth of pain. His weakness. The illness draining him of his fight already.  
  
Jack paces up the hallway. His heart silently screaming. He stops, leaning his forehead against the wall. "Don't take him from me. Not like this."

There's a rustling behind him. He takes a few slow, measured breaths to steady himself before pushing away from the wall. Bozer stands next to him in similar garb and a haunted look in his eye.

"Luca died," he whispers.

Jack nods. It's not a surprise. Through the plastic isolation tent over the stretcher, the man looked terrible when he was wheeled passed. Halfway gone before he even made it to the hospital. Jack is surprised that he hung on as long as he did. He failed in his mission and had nothing left to fight for.

And there's something of relief in the news. Jack doesn't even feel guilty about that. A one percent chance of survival. At least the lunatic who started this didn't steal Mac's one percent.

Mac would probably tell him statistics don't work like that, but he's not here to tell Jack he's being ridiculous so he can't criticize Jack's analysis. If he wants a say in Jack's rambling thoughts then he's going to need to stop doing stuff like getting exposed to superviruses and getting himself isolated away from Jack.

Mac will make it. Mac has everything to fight for. A family who loves him. He won't do this to them. He's not going to die. Jack won't let him.  
Jack walks slowly back towards the still covered window. Waiting.

"He can do this," Bozer says, his voice wavers.

"'Course he can. Didn't you yell at me for doubting him?"

It's taking too long.

"Today's one of those days, I wouldn't mind still being oblivious to what you guys do," Bozer confesses.  
  
Something is wrong. Something has changed.

He can feel it.

A silent alarm raised, additional medical personnel trot briskly up the hallway, preparing to enter the room.

Jack ignores Bozer. He grasps the arm of a white coat that he vaguely recognizes. One of the many consults that's examined Mac in the last day. "What's going on?"

The physician's eyes are sympathetic and Jack hates that. Wants to scream not to look at him like this. They might know medicine and the virus and the immune system but they don't know Mac. "That's what we're going to find out." Gently removing his arm from Jack's grasp.  
  
"You get me in there with him," Jack growls. "You get me fitted with whatever protective equipment I need or I will walk through those doors like this, exposure be damned."

* * *

  
He's alone.  
  
The lights dim, and eyes bleary but the room is empty. Silent.  
  
Figures flit past, but they don't stay. The touch is clinical. Assessing and examining. Studying the disease, and his reaction to it. There's nothing anyone can do for him. Symptom management and a one percent chance.  
  
He's alone.  
  
He's going to die alone.  
  
Nothing anyone can do for him. Not even touch him.  
  
Not even Jack.  
  
His joints ache. Knees and elbows, shoulders. He twists trying to find some relief, anything to ease that dull throb that settles into his hips and back.  
  
"Hurts," he mumbles. His mouth is dry, the movement of speech pulls against cracked lips. They bleed. There's a straw in his mouth and a voice tells him to drink, but it hurt too much. His throat parched but the cool water feels like swallowing shards of glass.  
  
A muffled voice encourages him to take another sip. To swallow. He obeys but it makes his ears crackle and increases the pressure in his head.  
  
He just wants it to be over. It hurts so bad.  
  
His head pushes back against the pillow, damp with sweat. He shivers.  
  
Then he feels it coming, that tightness in his chest. The pain that follows is unbearable. A hoarse barking cough that shakes him so hard it feels like every bone is rattling. He can't stop the cough. Can't catch his breath. He's going to suffocate. Asphyxiate on the mucus that plugs his lungs.  
  
Strong arms pull him upright. A comforting hand against his back.  
  
He coughs hard. Again and again. It feels like his chest is going to crack, bones shatter with the force.  
  
Something covers his mouth, thick and plastic, if the cough doesn't suffocate him this will.  
  
"Breathe Mac," a voice whispers in his ear, through the pains and the aches.  
  
"Can't," he chokes between coughs.  
  
A solid presence against his back keeps him sitting upright. A hand against his chest, rubbing comforting circles. The coughing slows and he fights to pull in oxygen. A cool vapor wisps through his airways. It tickles, but the spasms ease.  
  
The hand doesn't stop drawing comfort. Easing the ache.  
  
He feels himself floating.  
  
Drifting.  
  
Dying.  
  
Except he's not alone.  
  
A hand is in his. The grip is familiar, but the fingers feel wrong, against his skin, waxy.  
  
A muffled voice keeps talking. He can't see the face, hidden behind a mask, but he recognizes the tone, and words, and the brown eyes.  
  
The hand cards through his hair.  
  
He's not going to die alone.  
  
"You're not going to die at all," the voice says, thick with emotion, hard as granite. Determined.  
  
He's always trusted that voice. Doesn't want to disappoint it.

* * *

  
Bozer and Riley take turns at the window. The hospital reluctantly let Jack into Mac's isolation room. That's as far as they're willing to bend the rules. That's the extent they're willing to risk. The other two members of team improvise are going to have to be content to watch from outside the room. Riley feels like she's the one in the isolation room, removed from her family.  
  
They sit together. Take turns going back to the hotel for a nap or a shower. Coffee and food runs. Sitting in the hard plastic chair that makes her legs fall asleep and waiting, watching, is agonizing. Pacing, until she's ready to drop from exhaustion, and worrying. Oscillating between hope and despair. The world doesn't exist outside of this hallway and that room. It's the hardest thing she's ever done.  
  
Leaving, even for short periods is worse.  
  
So are the moments when the curtains close so the nursing staff can clean Mac up or examine him. Those minutes when he's out of eyesight and the monitors are hidden from view cause Riley's heart to race. As long as someone is watching, Mac will live, but if they look away for a second they'll lose him.  
  
She wonders if Bozer and Jack have the same morbid thoughts, because they carefully schedule their breaks to make sure someone is always there.  
  
Riley finds her eyes continually drawn to the monitor over Mac's bed. She can read most of it from this angle. The blue light glows even in the dark midnight hours. The numbers look bad to her, a quick google search confirms that. She knows she's seen some of those numbers looking worse, but not all of them at the same time, for this long without improvement.  
  
Mac's got a new IV line in his neck. Riley cringes at the sight of it. The IV pole is weighted down with bags and bottles, and they keep attaching additional chambers to the pump.  
  
She's never seen Mac look this sick. Exhausted fatigue in his eyes, more closed than opened now.  
  
She's never seen Jack look this scared. Only his eyes visible above the mask, but they're red-rimmed and swollen.  
  
Riley hastily brushes aside tears she didn't realize were in her eyes when she hears footsteps behind her.  
  
Bozer hands her a styrofoam cup. "Everything's closed."  
  
A glance at the clock reveals that it's just after three in the morning.  
  
"This is fine. Thank you." Riley takes a sip of coffee she doesn't really want. It's something to do. Get coffee. Grab snacks at the vending machine. Her bag is overflowing with peanut M&Ms. She never wants to see another small yellow bag of chocolate candy. Will give them up forever if it means Mac will be alright.  
  
"Did they say anything?" Bozer asks.  
  
"Um..." Riley swallows hard, trying to choke down the tears, keep her voice steady. "No."  
  
Bozer nods quietly.  
  
Earlier today, yesterday now, the nurses and doctors would step from the room, giving encouragement. "He's holding his own." or "His blood pressure is stable." "His fever is responding." There was a slow and steady shift in the late afternoon. Instead of words, there are sympathetic smiles, and averted eyes, silently warning them to prepare for the worst.  
  
Riley doesn't know what will happen if they lose Mac.  
  
Can't fathom a world without his smile and ideas.  
  
If Mac dies...  
  
The Phoenix won't be able to rise from those ashes. If he dies, she doesn't want it to.  


* * *

  
Mac's fever spikes despite medication and cooling measures. Congestion filling his lungs. A third bolus of fluids does nothing to help his tanking blood pressure and Jack is beside himself.  
  
Little puffs of breath fog the oxygen mask placed over Mac's mouth. He fights them, delirious. Jack isn't sure which memory Mac is currently stuck in, but his eyes rove the room in panic, dancing over Jack, as if he doesn't recognize his friend. Maybe in his fever, he doesn't.  
  
Heavy eyes. Mac refuses to rest. Tracking the movement in the room. Eyes roaming. Lids slowly dragging closed only to snap open again with startled gasps a moment later. Gasps that induce spasming coughs that make the very marrow of Jack's bones ache.  
  
It's exhausting to watch.  
  
Jack holds Mac's hand, whispering, making promises, anything to keep his boy with him. His firm grip grounding Mac enough so he stops trying to remove the oxygen or crawl out of bed.  
  
Even with his fingers encased in gloves, he can feel the startling heat of Mac's skin.  
  
They make him leave every few hours to rest, to eat and take care of himself. To allow them a chance to take care of Mac's needs. Letting go of Mac's hand and walking out of the room is the hardest thing he's ever done. Every moment he's away he worries about the kid. He skipped his last few breaks.  
  
They let him.  
  
To Jack, that is more telling than anything. They think this is the end. That Mac is going to lose this fight.  
  
Mac's voice is raw. Continuous mumbled words. Jack almost wishes he would quiet, give his raspy voice a rest. Sleep. Though when he went quiet a few hours ago, Jack's heart nearly stopped in fear. Only his fingers against Mac's wrist kept him from blind panic. He silently counted Mac's pulse for hours.  
  
Mac twists against the sheets, pushing them aside. A low moan escapes his lips. His eyes open again. They fall on Jack, and this time recognize him.  
  
"Jack," he whispers. "Go."  
  
"Not going anywhere, bud," his hand coming to rest on Mac's temple, his thumb caressing lightly against Mac's forehead.  
  
"You'll get sick."  
  
"Little bitty bug like this one? Nah. I'll be fine."  
  
Mac huffs.  
  
"You're going to be fine too. You're not going to let this win."  
  
"Can't."  
  
"That's right, you can't let this win."  
  
"No," Mac reaches for Jack's hand, but the effort is too much. His arm falls back against the bed. "Can't fight it." A tear leaks from the corner of Mac's eye, dripping against Jack's hand.  
  
"Don't do this, Mac. Don't say that."  
  
"Dying."  
  
"No, bud. That's not how this works. You go kaboom, I go kaboom. You hear me? You don't get to go out alone. You die. I die too." Jack cards his hand through Mac's hair. His voice low and soothing "I'm not letting you go. Not yet."  
  
Mac's eyes slide closed, granting Jack's earlier wish for the kid to sleep. He looks at the monitor, just to make sure it's not suddenly going to squawk desperate alarms. It stays quite. Tracing the electrical impulses of Mac's too fast heart.  
  
Time slows to a crawl. For Jack, nothing exists outside of this room, outside of his kid.  
  
"I'm selfish, Mac. I need you, kid. It's bad. I know. I know it's bad but please don't go. Please don't--" a ragged sob tears through Jack's chest.  
  
Outside the window, Riley turns away from the scene. Bozer wraps his arms around her, pulling her into his chest.  
  
"We're going to lose both of them," Riley's voice muffled. "If Mac... we can't let Jack be alone in there if Mac dies."  
  
"You think he'll try to..." Bozer's voice trails off.  
  
Riley pulls her head back to look Bozer in the eye. "I think that if Mac dies, Jack will just take off his mask."  
  
A stricken look crosses Bozer's face. His mouth opens to protest, then closes.  
  
"There's nothing for him to fight. No mission of vengeance."  
  
"He's not going to die," Bozer says firmly. "He's not. Neither of them."  
  
Riley pushes her face against Bozer's shoulder again.  
  
"He's not," Bozer repeats. "He's not."

* * *

  
It's too many days in this isolation room and so many cool cloths on Mac's forehead. Antipyretics, antivirals and IV fluids. And Jack doesn't leave.  
  
He doesn't stop talking. Voice raspy with overuse. He can't leave. He can't stop talking. If he stops talking, Mac loses his tether. He loses Mac.  
It's a stupid idea that takes root in his brain, but he can't shake it loose. So he keeps talking.  
  
"We've got too much to do yet, bud. Visit Cage and fight a kangaroo. Unicycle on the Great Wall. Win the Tuna Tossing world championship. Bet you could science the shit out of that. Teach me all about the arc needed to achieve maximum velocity and distance." He keeps listing more outlandish ideas, hoping for a response. Mac stays silent.  
  
Audible wheezes and coarse crackles with each shallow breath. Jack counts each one.  
  
"Keep fighting, Mac. Don't let this beat you. You are so much stronger than this."  
  
Mac's fever breaks.  
  
They wait. Anxiously watching. Bated breath.  
  
For the first time, Mac sleeps, unmarred by restless agitation. The lines on his face smooth, his breathing deepens.  
  
Despite himself, Jack falls into a peaceful sleep, listening to the steady inhales and strong exhales.  
  
His neck screams at him when he wakes. The muscles and vertebra locked in place and protest his hunched over position. Protesting more as he slowly eases his head into alignment. Blue eyes stare at him. He feels the rush of tears filling his eyes. He doesn't trust his voice.  
  
Mac licks his cracked lips, lifting his head from the pillow to look closer at Jack. "Am I dead?"  
  
Jack chokes out a strangled laugh, picking up Mac's hand from the bed. "No, you're alive, Mac. You did it. You're alive."  
  
Mac's head falls back against the pillow. His other hand reaches to rub against his chest. "Hurts too much to be dead."  
  
Jack pushes the call light, summoning the nurses into the room. He steps back, allowing the medical personnel access to their patient. Just out of reach, but watching each movement, listening attentively. Needing the reassurance that Mac is going to be alright.  
  
Mac is efficiently examined and assessed. His eyes are already drooping when the partners are left alone in the room again.  
  
Jack drops back into his chair at Mac's bedside. "You should get some sleep, hoss."  
  
"Been sleeping too much lately."  
  
"Well, you need it."  
  
Mac shrugs. "I don't want to go back to sleep." His voice cracks. Jack's thumb wipes away a tear that threatens to fall. "I didn't think I was going to wake up."  
  
"You're too stubborn to go out that way," Jack argues, he tries to keep his tone light and teasing, but there's an undercurrent to the words. If he's not careful he's going to break, and Mac is too fragile right now to deal with Jack's emotional fallout.  
  
"It's not about stubbornness," Mac continues, missing the tension in Jack's voice.  
  
"Fine, stronger then. Stronger than you know. Braver." He drops Mac's hand and crosses his arms across his chest. His jaw clenches. He doesn't like the way this conversation is going. Mac is alive. That's all the matters, he can't even think about the alternative.  
  
"It should have killed me."  
  
"You're a fighter."  
  
"Statistically, I should be dead."  
  
"Don't curse me like that Mac," Jack growls. "Don't speak those words into existence. No father should have to outlive his son."  
  
Mac's eyes widen.  
  
Jack turns in his chair to face away from Mac, struggling to regain control of his emotions. Mac just woke up, he doesn't need to shoulder Jack's emotional outbursts. His eyes squeeze shut and he pinches the bridge of his nose to keep his tears at bay.  
  
A rustling comes from the bed behind him.  
  
"Jack," Mac's voice is quiet. A trembling hand gently lays on his shoulder.  
  
Jack swipes at the tears that escaped and turns back. "Nah, hoss, come on now, bud. Lay back, okay? I'm good. It's alright. You're alive. That's all that matters. Just come on, lay down."  
  
Mac allows Jack to assist him back to a reclining position. The effort to sit up left him shaking.  
  
"I'm sorry, Jack," Mac's voice a whisper. "I thought this was going to be it."  
  
"For a while there, I did too, brother."  
  
"Guess everyone did, because they let you in here."  
  
"They just thought I was gonna mess up their newly renovated hallway with all my pacing."  
  
"Thank you."  
  
"It wasn't hard. I got the stamina to pace for days."  
  
Mac huffs. "For coming in. Taking the risk to stay with me so I wasn't alone."  
  
"It's going to take more than a super deadly mutant virus to keep me away from you, hoss. Haven't you realized that yet?"  
  
"I'm starting to," Mac smiles. Long tired blinks drag his eyelids closed.   
  
"Go ahead and close those blues, bud."  
  
Mac's eyes snap open. "I--"  
  
Jack cards a hand through Mac's hair. The too recent fear of falling into a forever sleep written on his face. "You'll wake up again, I promise. And I'll be right here when you do."  
  
  



End file.
